Review: Ying E Chi’s “Keep Rolling:Independent Filmmaking Project”
BY Justin Chor Yu Liu, Nov 2, 2022, 10:30 AM PT. Hong Kong On Screen https://www.hkonscreen.org/
The Indie Spirit of Omnibus Keep Rolling Outweighs Its Critical Unevenness
The omnibus film has always had its place in starting new waves of cinema and in Hong Kong cinema. Taiwan New Cinema was kickstarted by In Our Time (1982) and The Sandwich Man (1983), two omnibus films that feature shorts by Hou Hsiao-hsien and Edward Yang, foreshadowing the dominance those masters would later achieve in the global arthouse sphere. In recent years, the omnibus anthologies Ten Years and Good Take! signified emergences of young Hong Kong filmmakers with potential, with Kiwi Chow (Revolution of Our Times), Wong Chun (Mad World), and Derek Tsang (Better Days) already achieving international recognition in a few short years. Even the old masters have joined in the fun with Septet: the Story of Hong Kong.
Keep Rolling, presented by indie cinema organization Ying E Chi, aspires to do the same. Ying E Chi has always been at the forefront of Hong Kong’s indie filmmaking scene, even though their film festivals and productions in recent years have faced bans and funding cuts under Hong Kong’s increasingly stringent censorship rules. Fearlessly, they trod on, with a new collection of four short films that intend to signify a future for Hong Kong cinema moving forward and to reflect the absurd Hong Kong life in a post-2019 and mid-COVID landscape. The result is mixed, however, with films of disparate quality that are mostly too preoccupied with making politically tinged observations before nailing the basic foundations of storytelling.
“Same Boat” (dir. LO Yan Chi)
The anthology starts on a high with “Same Boat”, an observation of a dance artist struggling to take care of her nonagenarian grandmother during COVID. It’s never made clear if it’s documentary or fiction, and it’s to its credit that it recalls both the domestic realism of Ann Hui’s most observational work and even Apichatpong Weerasethakul’s slow cinema. It holds process dearly, and achieves specificity in its faithfulness to dialect. There might be sad or climactic moments of conflict, but director Lo Yan Chi refuses to push those buttons, withholding with restraint. Unlike the other shorts, it also hesitates to pander to low political hanging fruit, instead inspiring the audience to fill in the gaps of sexism and generational conflict. These are all positive qualities that have been lacking in some of recent Hong Kong cinema’s more commercial, mainstream output.
Unfortunately, the short doesn’t evolve across time, slowing down to a halt where it no longer provides much new information. The structure is too lax to sustain a 30-minute runtime – there is not much rise and fall, let alone the formulation of a concrete argument. Lo commendably adopts an in medias res style that throws the audience directly into the living situation of the characters, and largely avoids public broadcaster-style narration, but at the same time, that sacrifices clarity and intent. As cinema vérité, it succeeds, but any meaning or statement stays the same at the end as it does at the beginning.
“Rubbish Ban” (dir. Kingston CHOW)
With “Rubbish Ban,” the anthology sinks to its nadir. The saving grace of this short is that it shows indie Hong Kong filmmaking in a style that perhaps defies expectations in the post-2019 landscape. Despite its dissatisfaction with government policy, “Rubbish Ban” is a self-deprecating comedy about a young good-for-nothing who carries around a mysterious box and loses his girlfriend. While a more politically aggressive and directly confrontational tone might be forbidden by the constraints of what is realistically filmable in Hong Kong right now, the film nonetheless shows a Hong Kong filmmaking scene that refuses to bow down or wallow in downtrodden misery. Even in these times, there is variety and diversity in filmmaking.
Unfortunately, this is around where the merits of “Rubbish Ban” end. It is nearly impossible to care about the “useless teenager” (廢青) protagonist, who doesn’t even have a goal to achieve, let alone showing any signs of working towards one. Instead, he just goes through a tour of Hong Kong’s absurd COVID theatre policies – pointed, but also repetitive and ultimately exasperated and unproductive. Of course, it is valid to complain in today’s Hong Kong, but does that truly substantiate cinema? The short is so preoccupied with winning political commentary points that it forgets the storytelling basics of raising the stakes, and it’s not like that commentary reaches deep. It hangs onto a “story” about the mysterious box that neither progresses nor resolves to anything meaningful. This is before we even get to the short’s YouTube-fication of cinema, incorporating cutesy graphics and generic center-frame shallow depth-of field. That is a systemic symptom in recent Hong Kong media, from features like Far Far Away to ViuTV productions and micro shorts. While Chow has directorial confidence and voice, it is a derivative one that has not thought about the meaning behind style.
“April’s Interlude” (dir. Erica KWOK)
The stylistic confidence continues with “April’s Interlude,” another short about Hong Kong’s absurd COVID theatre, this time centering on a facial masseuse who loses her job because the government has unscientifically shut down all beauty parlors. It jumps out for its long-take master shots of conversation scenes, recalling the domestic realism of Hirokazu Kore-eda and Ozu. As if to scream “style,” it’s also presented in black-and-white, even though the production design has not provided enough contrast for that to work. Kwok shows stylistic consideration, but don’t mistake that for stylistic maturity. The film’s stoic blocking is prioritized for the frame, not the story, and it hence lacks emotional authenticity. This is clearly the work of a young filmmaker who thinks so much about how the frame looks that they have ironically forgotten about what’s inside it.
After the stylistic impression and initial COVID-related observations wear off, one realizes “April’s Interlude” doesn’t have much of a story to tell. Like “Rubbish Ban,” the protagonist simply goes through a string of COVID-related plot points that don’t build up to anything. Perhaps Kwok realizes this as well, so they compensate with a haphazard story of an incompatible romance. But this storyline is so haste, rushed, and undeveloped that it fails to strike its tone of ennui or regret. As if to make matters worse, the last third engages in classic Hong Kong domestic helper–ism that has the noble goal of diversification but only ends up boxing a person of color into a centuries-dated trope of the magical negro. Hong Kong cinema clearly still has a lot to catch up to, in terms of thoughtfulness in identity politics.
“A Letter from Prison” (dir. Jason YIU)
Thankfully, Keep Rolling finishes on its apex, saving its best short for last. The meta “A Letter from Prison” tells the story of a videographer who is struggling to pen a letter to imprisoned protestors as he makes a film about those comrades. Even with its whole meta conceit, its devices are the most direct and thus effective, striking the audience with refreshing authenticity and poignancy that sneaks up on you. It has by far the best mise-en-scène and production design, showcasing a director who knows the basics of what makes audiovisuals work. Its classical, simplistic montage cuts deep, and a late twist actually catches the viewer by surprise, once again because it has not tried to be cute or ostentatious.
Its biggest flaw is the tonal whiplash when it cuts from depressing prison talk to rambunctious screaming kids, but even that is done with the correct intent to create contrast. The lead actor’s performance is also a blot, but that is compensated by everything surrounding him. The short unfortunately falls prey to ending with a weightless “sweeping” drone shot, but that doesn’t hide the true potential and promise shown by its director Jason Yiu.
Conflict During Conflicted Times
The biggest conflict when judging a film like Keep Rolling is how much free pass one should give. At these trying times of censorship, making any film is hard enough. Is it really so wrong for the filmmakers to stay at the level of poking at Hong Kong’s absurd COVID theatre when its absurdity has pervaded every inch of life? When Keep Rolling is meant to be a showcase of green voices, is it fair to hold the filmmakers to such high standards and conventional rules of cinema, especially when those conventions have traditionally been defined by white academic, critics, and filmmakers from a Western perspective?
Any leeway has a limit, and there’s only so much forgiveness one can give. If anything, if a viewer truly loves Hong Kong cinema and wishes it to survive, they need to critique it as honestly as they can. Keep Rolling, while nobly intended, features filmmaking of such shoddy standards that it would lose audiences before it gains them. It shows a light for indie Hong Kong cinema to move forward, and that is a fruit anyone should treasure; what the filmmakers should learn from it is to, as its title suggests, keep rolling, so their work can keep improving. We can critique them and applaud their perseverance and courage at the same time, and I sure hope they keep up the good fight.
Listen to the HKOS Podcast on this Project:
Ep. 9: Conversation with “Keep Rolling” Directors (I) [Cantonese]
Ep. 10: Conversation with "Keep Rolling" Directors (II) [Cantonese]
The Hong Kong On Screen Podcast is a podcast about Hong Kong Cinema. The HKOS Podcast is hosted by Hong Kongers. You can follow us on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. You can also email us at info@hkonscreen.org.
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